


World of Chances

by stuckytrash (Watsittoyou)



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: (not actually cancer), Angst, Cancer, M/M, Misdisagnosis, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Sad, Sad with a Happy Ending, Terminal Illnesses, You're probably going to cry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-15
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2019-02-02 12:56:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12727026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Watsittoyou/pseuds/stuckytrash
Summary: “You’re terminal.”“How long do I have?”"Two months."He and Bucky didn't speak the whole drive home.Or: Steve has cancer, until he doesn't.





	World of Chances

It started with back pain.

Bucky had looked concerned, demanding that he pull up his shirt so that he could inspect Steve’s back, strongly suspecting he’d gotten into some kind of fight and bruised his back. When Steve obliged, because he _hadn’t_ got into any fights, damn it, Bucky just trailed his fingers over the unblemished skin with confusion.

“Maybe you slept wrong,” Bucky shrugged, his fingers soothing the lumpy knobs of Steve’s spine.

“Maybe,” Steve agreed absently, shucking his shirt back down and forgetting about it.

 

“Buck, could you pass me the paintbrush over there?” Steve gestured absently to the other side of the table, too engrossed in his recent commission to do more than glance to the other side of the table.

“That’s a pencil, Stevie,” Bucky teased, walking to the coffee table and taking the actual paintbrushes from there instead. “You need to up your prescription?”

“Probably,” Steve groaned, rubbing his eyes beneath his glasses. “My eyes do hurt a little. It’s been over a year, I’m probably due for a check-up anyway.”

“M’just teasing,” Bucky assured him with a sweet kiss against his forehead.

 

It turned out, however, that Steve _did_ need a new prescription. And a strong one. His optometrist had frowned, shaking his head.

“It looks like you’re on track to lose some vision in your right eye,” he told him. “I don’t know what’s causing it, you don’t seem to have any evidence of neurological tumours, but I’d recommend making an appointment with your doctor.”

“You think it might be serious?” Steve asked, only half-sighing. He’d hoped that his childhood-long misfortune of a poor immune system had blown over.

“It could be. Some people with eyesight like this are prone to MS, so I want you to check it out.”

“Okay,” he shrugged, not particularly concerned.

At least, he wasn’t, until he told Bucky what he’d said.

“Hang on,” Bucky stopped, voice low and dangerous as he out his book down. “You might have MS? This is serious, Steve, how are you not concerned about that?”

“It’s probably nothing,” he sighed. “I’ve been healthy enough for the past couple years, I’d notice if something was off.”

“Like your back pain?” Bucky asked quietly. “And poor eyesight? That’s MS all over, Steve, this – this could seriously affect the rest of your life, and you’re acting like, what, it’s the common cold?”

“Bucky,” Steve softened, but his boyfriend wasn’t listening.

“I don’t care, Steve. I saw enough of you living in and out of hospitals when we were kids, I never want to see that again, so get it checked out, and get it treated.”

“There’s probably nothing wrong with me,” he assured Bucky, but he still bit his lip. “I’ll make an appointment, but I’m probably fine.”

 

Despite his promise, he didn’t actually prioritise making an appointment. He was more than likely _fine_ , and just because he slept strange on his back and had poor vision, didn’t mean he was doomed to die at the ripe old age of twenty-seven. He _wasn’t_.

And then his legs buckled when he got to his feet to grab a snack, only just managing to steady himself when Bucky shot up to catch him.

“You okay?” Bucky demanded, looking him over with harsh concern.

“I-” he hesitated, looking Bucky in the eye. “Maybe I should make that appointment…” he trailed off in a low voice, shame absorbing him as there was a fire to Bucky’s gaze.

“You haven’t gone yet?” he demanded. “Fucking – look at this! You just nearly fainted like a goddamned damsel, when you could have been checking this out.”

“I didn’t almost faint!” he huffed, falling back onto the couch and rubbing over the harsh pins-and-needles feeling in his legs. “I’ll go to the doctor, okay?”

 

He did.

He insisted on going alone, even though Bucky was completely prepared to take a day off of work to drive him, to sit with him just in case, but Steve knew for a fact that it was going to be some old condition flaring up, or just becoming unwell as it got closer to winter. It happened, occasionally, and Steve was adamant on not worrying about it.

Until he got home later, walking a little bit like a zombie, unseeing until Bucky shook his shoulders harshly.

“What’s going on?” Bucky practically pleaded. “Tell me, Steve.”

“They…” he swallowed roughly, blinking with confusion. “They want me to take an MRI. Said it might be…”

“What?”

“Cancer, Buck,” he whispered, like saying the word would make his whole life fall apart. “I might have cancer.”

For a split second, Bucky’s expression fell apart, devastated, almost like he was crumbling before Steve’s eyes, but he pulled himself together.

“When? I’m going with you.”

“Next week,” he bit his lip. “They want to find out what it is quick. If it is – is…. Then. The sooner the treatment…”

“You’re going to be fine,” Bucky promised with such fervour, with such confidence, that Steve smiled.

“Of course I am,” he whispered. “I always am.”

 

 

“There’s a tumour on your spine.”

 

“There’s a strong likelihood it’s cancer.”

 

“You’re terminal.”

“How long do I have?” Steve asked, voice even despite the tears streaming down his face, despite the fact that Bucky had begun to cry next to him, because he needed to know. He needed to know.

Doctor Green looked at him sympathetically. “Without treatment, we estimate around two months.”

Turning that over in his mind, he hesitated a long moment before asking, “And with?”

“Six months.”

“So either way, I’m going to die.” He surmised, turning his gaze away from Bucky who had yet to say anything. He could face his boyfriend’s expression, not knowing that Bucky would be trying to memorise every inch of skin on Steve’s body.

“I’m sorry. I can put you into contact with…”

Steve only half listened after that, trying to figure out where he went from there.

He and Bucky didn’t speak the whole drive home. Honestly he was a little surprised that Bucky managed to stop crying long enough to drive them home, but then, he was probably in a state of shock. It’s not every day you’re told that your boyfriend won’t make it to the New Year, after all.

“Please take the treatment,” Bucky begged him as soon as they crawled into their living room. “I’m begging you, Steve, I need – I – I can’t, please-”

Steve didn’t say anything, didn’t interrupt, just softly put his hand over Bucky’s, and held it tightly.

“I can’t lose you, Steve,” he sobbed. “I just – we – we never got the chance to – to get married, or get a dog, or have kids, or anything, and two months is too soon to – to say goodbye to you, just _please_ -”

“Treatment’s only gonna prolong the inevitable,” Steve whispered, unable to meet Bucky’s gaze. “Treatment’s gonna mean – gonna mean surgery, me on a ventilator, life support, dying slowly, and in pain. I’d rather go sooner if it means I don’t have to live like that. If it means I don’t have to see you cry every time you see me because you know I’m – _going_.”

Bucky really did crumple, then, diving to pull Steve into his arms, pulling his skinny chest close to his, settling his face onto Steve’s shoulder and crying.

Neither of them said anything for a long time after that.

 

“How are we going to tell everyone?” Steve whispered, numbness seeping into his bones like exhaustion as neither he nor Bucky could get close to sleeping.

“I don’t know,” Bucky replied, voice thick like he’d cry again if he had more tears left over. “I don’t know.”

“I’m not going to live long enough to meet Sam and Sharon’s kid,” Steve bit his lip. “We’re supposed to be her godfathers.”

“Please stop,” Bucky begged, tugging him close. “Please…”

 

“I have terminal cancer.”

Sam froze, twisting his gaze to look Steve straight in the eyes as he demanded, “Tell me you’re joking. Right now. Because I’d rather yell at you for joking about that than –”

“I’m not joking. I wish I was.” Sam dropped his gaze, leaning back on the couch and turning his gaze to the floor.

“How… how long?”

“Two months, they think.”

“There’s nothing they can do?”

“No.”

 

It’s almost funny, actually, how every conversation goes the same way. First Sam, then Natasha and Clint, then Pepper and Tony, (who, admittedly, tried to find out what kind of cancer he had purely so he could find a cure before Steve kicked the bucket.) and finally his and Bucky’s mothers. They were both unbelievably devastated, and it was lke for once, nobody ever wanted to leet him go home, lest it be the last time they ever saw him.

 

“Marry me.” Bucky didn’t ask one day, a week after he was diagnosed, with a steel to his gaze that told Steve he wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

“Bucky…” he murmured quietly.

“I know you want to. We discussed that before all this. And now – now I want to spend the rest of my life with your name, if you can’t be there with me.”

“We don’t have enough time for a wedding,” he shrugged, with a wet laugh.

“I don’t care,” Bucky said fiercely. “We’ll have a city hall wedding if that’s what it takes, but I want to marry you before…”

Steve sighed, bony shoulders reaching his ears as he shrugged. He was getting thinner, though he wasn’t sure if it was the cancer or just the lack of a desire to eat. Steve might be a little depressed.

“Are you sure?” Steve pleaded. “Please think about this. You’re marrying a dead man walking. In two months you’ll be a widower. I just… I want you to be happy, Bucky. After I’m gone, I don’t want you – _mooning_ over me. I want you to – to find someone else who makes you –”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence. You _know_ you’re it for me. You always have been and always will be, and now, or in twenty years, I will never want anyone but you, and I will be glad, then, that I got to marry you, and we were – _h_ - _happy_.”

He tugged his boyfriend – or, he thought with a smile, he supposed his _fiancé_ – into a hard hug.

“I’ll marry you,” he promised.

 

And he did. Only two days later, using the rest of the money in Steve’s bank account to buy the beautiful rings, they got married with Natasha as the witness, because she was the one least likely to cry. Which wasn’t to say that she _didn’t_ cry, just that she didn’t cry so much. She took photos, and had them gifted a week later, so that Bucky would always, always, _always_ remember how giddy Steve had been that they’d finally gotten hitched, even despite the rush.

 

Bucky was sleeping in, after ten, when Steve got the phone call. He almost didn’t want to answer it, recognising the number as Doctor Green’s, but he knew that Bucky would look at him, disappointed, if he did.

So he answered and prepared himself for whatever may come. He had a week less long to live? Or, dare he hope, a week _more_?

“Mr Rogers?” Green intoned over the phone.

“Speaking,” he sighed, picking up the pile of mail from the day before and opening his methodically. Bills, bills, taxes, miscellaneous leaflets. All sorts.

“I’d like to speak to you about your diagnosis. We have reason to believe there was an error with the readings, and we want to check.”

Steve groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. He knew what that meant. It was worse than they’d originally thought – although, he thought, with dry humour, he couldn’t imagine how much worse it could get that a terminal illness with around two weeks left to live.

“When do you want to see me?”

“As soon as possible, if you don’t mind – especially considering the nature of your current diagnosis.”

“How soon is _soon_?” he asked, irritated. “I’m free right now. And any day up until, oh the week after next. I’ve got an appointment with someone upstairs, you see.”

“Now will do nicely. I’ll see you in a half hour, Mr. Rogers.”

They hung up, then, and there was a brief moment where Steve considered waking hi husband, asking him to come along, but he stopped at the doorway, staring at his prone figure.

Bucky had had such a long, hard month. What with trying to balance a dying husband, and a job, he’d almost entirely overexerted himself. His boss told him to take a day off, today, which was why he was sleeping in so soundly. Steve didn’t want to worry him with a doctor’s appointment, didn’t want to remind him that Steve would be gone soon.

So he kissed his husband on the forehead and left a note on the fridge, saying that he’d gone for a walk and would be back soon, and left.

 

“Hang on,” Steve struggled, gaze turned down onto the floor as he tried to understand exactly what the doctors were telling him. “Misdiagnosed?”

They looked at one another, uncomfortable, almost certainly thinking about the possible lawsuit for medical negligence that they had on their hands. He only recognised Doctor Green, but he was told that Doctor Rosenberg was his supervisor.

“It wasn’t until we revisited the MRI that we realised there were other things that could cause your specific symptom. Because of the nature of the tumour, we’re unable to operate on it to determine, positively or negatively, whether it is cancer.”

“So you assumed.” He concluded, horrified. “You _assumed_ I had cancer, and _assumed_ it was terminal?”

“We… don’t know for sure-”

“You’re going to make _damned_ sure,” he raged. “My husband has been going out of his mind facing burying me, and now you’re telling me I might not even be – be fucking _dying_?”

“We’re going to do everything we can-”

“You’re going to do it _now_.” He demanded, quiet and steely. “Every test happens today. And you’re lucky if I don’t go to the fucking press with this after this is said and done, because this…” he shook his head.

“We’ll schedule you in for emergency scans.” Doctor Green agreed immediately.

 

“Hey, Buck?”

“Mmmm… yeah?”

“Did you just wake up?” he teased fondly.

“A little… jus’ makin’ coffee now. Want some?”

“No, I’m just… I’m gonna be a while longer. Going to visit my ma.”

“I’ll pick you up-”

“Bucky, it’s okay. Really. I want to spend some time with her. Just the two of us, you know.”

There was silence for a beat. “Yeah,” Bucky whispered sadly. “I know. I’ll see you later, baby.”

“I love you,” Steve promised, and hung up.

 

The doctors swore blind that they’d have his results in by the end of the week, having prioritised him above most others due to the serious nature of his demise, so, still angry, he went home.

The walk was calming enough, at least, that he wasn’t angry when he got home, because Bucky would certainly have wanted to know why he was so upset, so that was at least a plus.

“Hey,” he greeted Bucky with a kiss. “Have you been watching Drag Race since you woke up again?”

“What, it’s my favourite pastime,” Bucky grinned. Steve shook his head fondly, and for the first time in over a month, he felt hope flare up in his chest, that maybe, just maybe, he’d have more than two weeks left.

 

“What you have is called Neuromyelitis Optica,” Doctor Rosenberg explained. “Its symptoms can be similar to either cancer or MS. It doesn’t have a cure, but it is treatable, and is not terminal.”

“I’m not going to die,” he surmised, before dropping his face into his hands and crying. “I’m not going to die.”

“We’re going to make sure you get all of the treatment available. For many with this condition, it’s barely noticeable with the right treatment, and so long as you keep an eye on potential symptoms, you’ll more than likely live a long, happy life.”

 

He crept up behind Bucky as he was cooking, that night. It was an anniversary of theirs, from about five years ago, and they always did something ice, but tonight, Bucky was going all out. Fancy meal, candle lit dinner, romantic music.

As far as Bucky knew, this would be their last anniversary while Steve still roamed the earth.

“Evening,” he cooed into Bucky’s shoulder, too short to whisper into his husband’s ear. “What are you making?”

“Pork dinner,” Bucky obliged him with a beautiful smile. He could see the pain in his eyes, though, the way the light had dimmed over the past month from hopeful, to accepting. Steve wanted to give him hope again.

“Smells delicious.”

“I hope you can finish it,” Bucky fretted. “I bought us dessert, too, since I can’t bake for shit.”

“I love it already,” he promised.

He wondered if Bucky was suspicious of how smiley he was being, but if he was he didn’t say anything. If their roles were reversed, Steve would just be thankful that Bucky found it in him to smile beyond everything at least.

He got halfway through his mountain of potatoes before deciding he couldn’t wait anymore.

“I haven’t been going on walks,” he admitted. “Or visiting my ma.”

Bucky chewed slower, swallowing as met Steve’s gaze thoughtfully.

“Where have you been?”

“Speaking to the doctor. At hospitals.” He swallowed, and frowned when Bucky’s expression crumpled again.

“Not today, please.” Bucky asked quietly, and Steve could tell how much he was straining not to cry. “It’s – it’s our anniversary. I don’t want to think about… not today. I don’t want to remember that in a few weeks…”

“I’m not terminal, Bucky.”

“Just, don’t, Steve!” Bucky burst out, before pausing, staring at him. “What are you talking about? I was there when they told you, Steve.”

“They misdiagnosed me.” he murmured. “It’s not cancer. It’s – it’s something called neuro…myelitis? Something like that. It’s – it’s treatable. Non-fatal. I’m not going to die, Bucky. I don’t have cancer.”

Tears flowed so quickly down Bucky’s cheeks it was like there was a whole river there specifically, and he waited, suspended, for Bucky to talk.

“Please tell me you’re not joking,” Bucky pleaded. “I don’t know what I’ll do if you go in two weeks’ time, and you just did this to make me happy.”

“I’m not joking. I wouldn’t be that cruel, I promise.” He reached for Bucky’s hand clutching it tightly. “I’m gonna be okay, Bucky. I’m going to be okay. Like I always told you.”

Bucky gave up then, standing suddenly and depositing himself onto Steve’s lap despite being a hundred pounds heavier, kissing him more passionately than he ever had, and Steve was unbelievably giddy.

 

 

“I’m so glad you could be here, man.” Sam gripped his shoulder tightly, tears falling over his eyelids heavily.

“Me too,” Steve smiled back. “Now where’s my goddaughter?”

“Stephanie’s in with Sharon. Bucky’s already taken a liking to her.”

“Stephanie? Are you kidding?”

Sam shrugged, not looking apologetic in the least. “We were throwing names around and I liked that one. Once you told us… well, we thought it was the best thing we could do. And never wanted to change it.”

“That’s…” Steve shook his head, emotional. “Thank you. Now I want to see the little thing!”

“Hey, she’s my daughter,” Sam teased. “Not a thing.”

Part of him suspected that Sam and Sharon had perfectly timed it so that he walked in to his husband holding Stephanie, looking at her with such soft eyes, that Steve was instantly taken.

 _We never got the chance to have kids_ , Bucky had cried after his initial diagnosis, grieving the loss of chances they were never supposed to get.

He had that chance now, and as soon as he and Bucky got home (and stopped jumping each other’s bones), they sat in front of the laptop for hours on end, searching for adoption agencies.

Steve could have missed out on a lifetime with Bucky. He wasn’t going to let it slip away ever again.

**Author's Note:**

> wrote this in about 2 hours because I was inspired and wanted to write something sad. Also, this was inspired by a true story.  
> A man in the UK was misdiagnosed with the same condition as Steve, and announced on his wedding day that he was not terminal and was going to live. So I took some liberties with the story, ha!
> 
> TBH I hope at least one person cried. I bawled like a baby writing this, and wanted to make someone else suffer.


End file.
